


Loaded

by startwithsparks



Series: MMOM 2012 [1]
Category: Fight Club (1999), Fight Club - Chuck Palahniuk
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startwithsparks/pseuds/startwithsparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's hard to tell who has the upper hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loaded

I am Jack's stiff rod.

I am Jack's pitched tent. 

I am Jack's throbbing cock.

I am Jack's overused metaphor. 

Whatever you want to call it, and I had come up with twenty-seven more ways in an attempt to will the unwanted interruption away, I hadn't been this hard since I was thirteen years old, beating off to my mother's fashion magazines in the upstairs bathroom. Unfortunately, it wasn't as easy to find a moment alone anymore with the members of Project Mayhem swarming around like a bunch of dumb worker-ants carrying food to their inflated queen – wherever Tyler was at the moment. As usual, I was sitting at the kitchen table, slumped back in my chair, lingering somewhere between awake and asleep. Were it not for the incessant hard-on and the inability to find a private moment to relieve the tension, I'm sure I wouldn't even be here around the smell of lye and sweat, but desperate men and all...

The worker-ants paid no attention to me, as if they ever did, and went on about preparation for some mission that I wasn't classified to know about. I'd stopped asking questions a while ago, because getting the same answers over and over was starting to cause a twitch to develop below my left eye, and now we all simply coexisted with little communication back and forth between me and them. The droning activity around me was almost good enough to disengage my brain from whatever part had redirected blood flow to my dick, but it was clear my body hated me enough to extend the torment. 

As I sat there, the door from the basement swung violently open and then slammed shut behind Tyler who, with the same emotionless bark as he delivered every other order, told the lingering worker-ants to get the fuck out and stay out until he let them back in. I said nothing, not that I said much to Tyler these days anyhow but I was feeling even less like striking up a conversation when I was trying to concentrate on a slightly bigger problem. He circled the table, licking his lips like a hungry wolf, and finally tugged out a chair on the other side of the table from me. The sound of the wooden chair legs grating across the floor made a knot twist in my stomach decidedly different from the knot that was already there. 

He swiveled the chair around to sit backwards on it and folded his arms across the top. His hips rocked forward, tipping the chair on to its back legs so his elbows nearly rest on the top of the table. I wanted to reach across the table and punch him in the face, because this was entirely his fault – his house, his idea, his devoted little worker-ants – that I was in the position I was now. But the longer I stared at him, the stronger my rage became, the longer Tyler sat there smirking back at me, rocking the chair to draw these long, deep creaks from the old wooden legs. I knew the game well, he was trying to get me to back down first. Sometimes I did, sometimes he turned and walked away without getting whatever it was he came in there for. But I wasn't in the mood to play his game today, and if he was coming in there for someone to stroke his ego, I'd rather he not be in there at all. These days I was greatly preferring the company of the mindless drones to him.

Tyler chuckled when I turned my head to look out the window and the legs of the chair thud back down on the floor.

"You're still defeated, whether you back down or stay neutral," he said, "the only way you win is by advancing. That's the secret," he was on his way around the edge of the table now, fingers dragging against the grain, and I couldn't tell whether he was gearing up for one of his lectures or if he was still trying to grate at me, "standing your ground is just a half step up from tucking your tail between your legs and running away." 

By now, Tyler was standing directly behind my chair, hovering. I knew his taunts well enough now that I didn't even flinch – nor did I try to argue is non-logic. Tyler placed one hand on my shoulder, the other – the hand with the burn – on the table in front of me. 

"You'll never get anywhere by sitting still," he said against my ear.

He was close enough now that if I wanted to punch him – like he'd read my thoughts and came over just to give me the opportunity – I could probably do it before I could react, but Tyler wasn't going to wait for me to make that decision. He drew his hand back off the table and plunged it down between my legs, grabbing the obvious bulge through my jeans. I didn't plan on giving him the satisfaction of freaking out about it, not that that the impulse struck me particularly hard, not that this would be the first time Tyler had tried to direct my attention in such a way. 

"Your problem is that you're too fucking scared to take control of your own destiny," he sneered, tightening his grip. "Can't even jerk off when you want to because you don't want to tell someone to get the fuck out."

"You're the one who told them to leave," I said. 

Tyler snorted, "Only because if I waited for you to do it, you'd sit here trying to convince yourself that you can reason with your dick. Apparently I have to take care of fucking everything around here." 

He let go of my shoulder to reach down, jerking the front of my jeans open and shoving down the zipper. He was entirely unceremonious about the affair and, briefly, I wondered what he was doing upstairs that used to make Marla screech like she did or if he'd lost his touch in the last few weeks. I could have pushed Tyler's hand away, but I was too busy searching for a reason to do it, just like I'd been too busy searching for a reason not to punch him to actually do it. If Tyler was going to insist that the only way to win was by advancing forward, I was going to prove to him that I could get what I wanted by sitting still, and that he was the one who would give it to me. He might have thought he was getting the better of me, that this was somehow more uncomfortable than any of the other positions he'd ever put me in, but on that Tyler was wrong. 

I left my hands on the front of my thighs while Tyler stroked, his hands rough and covered in thick scars, some still broken open on the back of his hands. I could hear his steady breathing against my right ear, his other hand back on my shoulder now, as he hunched over behind me. His hand moved in quick, precise strokes, somehow finding every sensitive contour along the length of my dick. I didn't want to think about how he knew this, but I wouldn't put it past him to watch, he seemed the type, even though the idea of it made a shudder roll up my spine; or that could be the feel of Tyler's fingers rolling slowly up the tip and back down again, half-jerking and half-drawing this out just to be a prick.

Finally, I leaned back, sliding my legs wider and squaring my shoulders. Instead of resting his weight against my shoulder to compensate, Tyler crouched down behind the chair and reached around under my arm, grasping my dick again and stroking harder, faster. I still don't completely believe that Tyler would wait for permission, but the fact that I'd given it seem to put some fire behind his movements. Whatever he did, I'd been denying myself long enough that all it took was a few more quick moments and Tyler had what he wanted – and I did too. He said nothing as he stood, but I could see him lick the web of skin between his thumb and his forefinger as he walked away, shutting the door to the basement behind him as he left as suddenly as he came.


End file.
